Sunday, December 14, 2008

I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.

Does this dummy not think that had I wanted to be sneaky I would not have published that fact publicly?

Yes a non-charging TLC was temporary, but the onset of Writers Dock charging was SONNY's idea. Writers Dock today AFTER I had left, announced they would be charging for membership of TLC. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.

So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.

The ten weeks work, the articles, the stories, the critiques (I have critiqued every single story and flash posted) was completely free.

TLC members have already posted about how much they learned and how disappointed they are.

I repeat I was NOT banned. I left because the situation was impossible.

Over the years Boot Camp has waxed and waned. It gets newcomers, people develop and leave to:

Have a babyStart an MA or MFAWrite a novel

etc

BC has always need around 24 members so that at any time 12-18 are active. We work intensely, brilliantly, successfully.

This last eighteen months I took my eye off the ball while renovating the chapel in Wales and the membership slipped. The place was still working (it still is today) but it felt lifeless.

I was a dormant member at Writers Dock, dormant, because frankly it was a very amateurish place run by amateurs, for amateurs. But there were a few souls there who wanted Writers Dock to be more and they had a new section for critiquing critiques, and that's MY kind of country.

So, as Cheesepuff, a membership I'd had since 2005, I began to post.

As is standard in these cases, certain baboons on certain rocks began to bare their teeth, but Sonny, the owner of the site confided in me that the site was struggling and atrophying and needed something like Boot Camp.

I set up an open forum "Tough Love Central" then a closed group "Tough Love Writing Group 1" and a third forum "Story Week 1", another "Story Follow-up" and a fifth for Flashes.

In just ten weeks we trebled the size of the membership

Below are the statistics. Appreciate this is from scratch in a partly-hostile environment.

00,087 New Flashes (9 per week)00,085 New Stories (9 per week)00,004 New Stories not yet posted00,005 Other Stories

00,181 Total Stories (18 per week)00,975 Total Critiques (incl professional stories) (98 per week)00,616 STORY Critiques (61 per week)00,328 Flash Responses/Crits (33 per week)00,007 Story Full critiques per-story average (7.25)00,004 Crit Responses per Flash average (3.77)

However, when an individual was castigated by a Draconian moderator for using a TLC prompt, I pointed out (not remotely flaming) why the castigation was wrong. The baboons rose up, as they always do. However, reading the various posts in WD you'd be forgiven for imagining that I had sent nasty emails or private messages. I did not. Not one. My privileges as a moderator were removed, so I told Sonny I would be leaving as soon as I had removed my stories, my articles and the Boot Camp grid.

I hear tonight that someone, "Rafiki" has noted that TLC was "a temporarily free forum" and that I was only at WD to recruit members.

Yes it was, but the onset of charges was SONNY's idea. WD brought in charges for new members three months ago and wanted me to charge for TLC at the rate of thirty pounds a month. That was delayed for one reason only; because I told Sonny to wait until TLC members began to score hits and win prizes.

So to clarify. The charging was at the behest of the owner of Writers Dock and it was me who delayed the imposition of the charge.

I've left WD (they blocked my ID immediately and have not allowed me to remove my personal files) and I have not solicited any WD member and suggested they join Boot Camp

Thursday, December 04, 2008

He might rush - another man would rush - dash out for bricks, come back, realise he didn't buy cement, rush out again. What bricks? Does it matter? Do they matter? Just bricks, you know, bricks. A wall is a wall is a wall.

And cement. You need cement, I guess. And you end up with some sort of wall.

No, this man, he thinks. Why a wall? What kind of wall? A wall for shade, or in the shade? Straight, curved, straight and curved? Ornate, or a plain-Joe wall, red-bricked, solid, neat white pointing. What kind of foundations? How deep, how wide, single brick or doubled? Spaces? Ties? What does the wall want? What will the wall say?

Will people look, say, "Nice wall!" or will the wall merely protect, watch backs and small people picnic on fine grass before it? Will they breathe out as the flop before the wall; drop onto blankets, sigh, feeling something is solid here, and the view, the view, the wall behind them, a mother's skirt they don't know they hold?

Brick. Red is usual, but there are many browns, yellows, grey. Or stone, should we think stone? Brick and Stone? Stone & Brick? Are we looking ahead, thinking of sticky-footed ivy, tacked trellises, roses, Russian vines? What shall the wall carry? Does the wall need to look good now (but one day it will be beautiful) or can we have a bare wall, an under-garment, because we know what comes next, a year, two, ten, a century on? If a wall is ugly now, will they leave it to become beautiful? If we make it pretty now, will it last to become beautiful? Is pretty now death for his wall?

Or perhaps he can hide his will-be-beautiful-one-day wall. Make the wall of a house, the house of a street, the street a village (but he knows it's all about his wall). He can laugh, "It's just a wall. A wall is a wall is a wall," and avoid those questions, refuse to talk when people say, but it feels more than just a wall, did you?

He has always been fascinated by walls. Tall red walls round English country gardens, dry walls across Bronteian moors. Neat yellow-bricked and fawn walls in tidy gardens, walls under green, surrounding old orchards, marble walls and steel walls, and walls of ice, even water-walls.

Once he looked at walls without seeing. A wall is a wall is a wall. Then one day - was he in love, was it hot? something was different - he just felt things, felt the way walls were, sensed the way walls are, how walls would be. And he started drawing his walls. To be frank, he drew walls poorly. He sketched, he caricatured, he misrepresented. He painted a little, but he was not an artist. He took photographs, read about walls in books, watched films about walls, listened to the radio, but mostly he just lived with walls, learned how to touch them, sense their breathing, understand where they had come from, rubble and mud, shepherds' bones, clay, chiselled ash, flint, horse-hair.

Now he is ready, a wall calls, a wall waits.

He sits in the sun. If a wall was here, just so, like this, here would be a pleasant spot. He feels a wall coming to him. He is desperate to begin, but he will not rush. He will not even imagine.

Instead, he drinks a little wine. He eats a little cheese. He breaks bread.

And pyramids, temples, Berlin, all float in the air. He sees brethren, ropes and pulleys, a barn flying upright (another burning, screams), and castles battered, undermined, and peace walls and ghetto walls, graffiti, paper, lacquer, hotel walls, a black, shining wall in the Capitol, names, names, names, and he breathes softly, a shepherd, a mason, a joiner, a poet, a man. He nibbles, sips, and then the wall begins to whisper, "I am ready. I will be."

I read an article by Malcolm Gladwell about the time it takes to be very good at anything (10,000 Hours) and that tied in with my beliefs about the sheer VOLUME we have to produce to gain mastery of our writing.

Beginners and intermediates take a lot of convincing over this. I say quantity begets quality but so much of “common-knowledge” suggests the opposite.

Anyway, I had to buy Gladwell’s book, even though we’re broke and I picked up his book “Blink” which is just as good a read. In Blink, Gladwell talks about instant decision-making and how it works, why it’s often brilliantly effective. But in there is much more including how easy it is to change people’s moods AND behaviour merely by salting a conversation with key words. That was, frankly, a bit scary, as was the tests that can show, even for those of us who believe race and colour is irrelevant, just what in-built biases we have.

These books are really excellent, great reads, stimulating, but also, VERY important for serious writers.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

There’s a simple adage in giving factual talks: “Tell them what you’re gonna tell them. Tell them. Tell them what you told them.

I am going to suggest that’s what happens with a good short story.

See? I’ve just told you what I’m going to tell you. Has any suspense been lost? Or are you set up to pay attention? After all, I CAN’T be right, can I?

My story “Ballistics”. Well, yes, the title tells you that ballistics will feature, so no suspense there, then, and the text?

A set of car keys, fat as a grenade, is arching towards your eyeball. The tip of one key, v-shaped will precisely pierce the dark core of your eye. You're not yet two years old but this won't protect you. You are not old enough to understand that these keys, thrown in anger, began their journey a year before you were born, that maybe, a psychiatrist will say, they began even further back when a mother left a father, or further back than this, when a mining foreman, bitter, too bad for drink, strapped his wayward son.

So immediately, my premise is set out. Nothing is accident, things are not chance. Everything we do has a consequence. The story goes on to detail the accident, what happened to the child, and then the adult woman, but not before, paragraph two, we hear: One day you will marry a much older man, a man with a criminal record for violence, who shaves his head brutishly short, who has his country's emblem tattooed on his chest, but nothing, nothing of this exists yet…

The story brings the girl now woman and the now older father together. There was an affair, anger, the father threw keys, but the young woman now wants to know about the other woman, did her father love her? Perhaps the story has become richer, but still, it’s ballistics, just like the title and the opening said it would be.

Another story, “Miguel Who Cuts Down Trees” is about a guy, guess his name and what he does. It opens:

When I was a little boy, I had a wooden truck. One day the truck began to move by itself. It went around the yard and then it came back to me. I went to sleep. When I woke it was just a wooden truck.

When I was fourteen I was flying a kite. I saw an angel alongside my kite. She was very beautiful. I found I could make the angel move by pulling the string of my kite, but then I fell asleep and when I woke my kite was broken and trampled with mud.

Ask yourself. Will this be a happy story? Is the boy to be man destined to be rich and famous? You know he’s not, but why? Hasn’t the author directed you? Sure, you expect a plot, not everything is pre-explained, but don’t you sense the essence? If I show you the third paragraph are you now in any doubt about Miguel’s life?

When I was fifteen I loved another boy. He was beautiful, almost as beautiful as the angel on my string. My boy kissed me when it was dark but then I was awake and my father sent me to a far island to be a fisherman.

Poor Miguel will spend a life, use, abused, lost. And how will he end up? From the title, do you think he will have found an accommodation with the world? Do you think he has powers, or sees things?

All these stories are winners of first prizes. What do you think will be the main element of the story: An Old Man Watching Football After Sunday Lunch? Go on, guess.

I’m an old man watching football after Sunday lunch. Earlier we went to The Sun in the Wood. I had Cold Turkey, Mary had Roast Lamb, her mother looked like mutton dressed up, with mint-sauce. There we were, lording it, our Sunday-best, our table reserved as usual in the annexe, four bottles of Chateau Neuf du Pape opened and breathing, waiting for us when we arrived. El Perfecto!

My grandson plays soccer. (The manager is a clown). It’s a crap day, wet, wind, and I have to remind myself I’m a volunteer, here to watch my boy. When he pulls on that red shirt I realise he is the most important thing to me.

OK, so he’s old and watching soccer, but do you really think that’s all it will be? Why not? We know he (granddad) has a bit of “an attitude”, likes a hefty drink. We know what he does every Sunday. We know what is the most important thing in his world.

Each paragraph establishes facts and sets us up for what will come. But one hundred words in, frankly couldn’t this story go anywhere? Well, no, not anywhere, but it needs narrowing in.

Let me back-track a moment. For my pains, years back I sold my one decent novel. Now I hack out lousy copies, shadows of that first one, and for whatever reason I still get booked to talk to writers. Yesterday I was in Wales, a shit-hole seaside resort called Porthcawl – a writers conference – and I found myself visiting the town’s Rest Bay Hotel, a hotel for gentle-folks.

There’s that “attitude” again, but the guy is an old writer with an attitude, and is it not highly likely the attitude, the grandson, the idiot manager will all come together to make the story’s point?

In my story Green Glass, do you think glass will feature, and what colour will it be? Exactly!

When you say it, finally say it, when you tell her you're leaving, when you finally realise that loving her isn't enough, not if she can bring you so much pain, your anger is so great you crush the wine glass you're holding. You watch as splinters embed in your hand, as a long, wicked shard of dark green glass hooks into the flesh of your thumb, your Mount of Venus, and you watch the blood from your palm, your arm, flow magically red to the floor. The blood is everywhere, the rug, the drapes, but she laughs at your crucified hand, your slashed wrist. She says, "My, honey, so much drama for such a pathetic little man. Rush yourself to the hospital, why don't you?"

You know green glass will matter. You can see the end of a relationship. So the story will be about a guy finding himself again, and that glass will feature. But will he love women or hate them or be afraid of them? Will the answer to that create the story’s tension? You tell me. Next paragraph.

There is a moment so black you want to kill her, then kill yourself, but you don't. You just leave. You leave her without another word, drive one-handed to the emergency room, get fixed. The nurse is older, thin-faced, with small grey eyes, a nose so sharp it looks dangerous. She doesn't much like you and when she speaks, spittle forms in the corner of her mouth. "Suicide," she says, "you need the stroke this way." She thinks this is funny, "Up the arm, and it's better with a razor."

You try to say it was an accident. "Sure," she says, and you think two bitches in one day, Jesus.

Do you think now he’ll get on the road?

The first night is anger-easy. After Nurse Ratchett has sewn you up you start driving. Earlier, you had thrown your typewriter, a bottle of Southern Comfort, a clean shirt in the trunk of the car. You check into the first motel you see as soon as darkness begins to drop across your eyes, you pay cash for the room, then you take the bottle, the shirt and the typewriter indoors.

So you know everything. This will be about how he loses then how he changes. I shan’t tell you more… and don’t forget the glass.

Who do you think The Bastard William Williams will be about?

I’m making you think, aren’t I?

I am the bastard William Williams, late of The Universal Pit, Senghennydd, then Abertridwr, and latterly the cellars of The Commercial Hotel, as pot man. Now that the dust have slowed me I am easy to find. I am still lived next door to the English Congregational Church, Commercial Road, Senghennydd. I venture from my place only for the English Cong, and in summer, if I am lucky, a visit from a relation.

Until the coaldust on my chest confined me to my front room I have been known as a hearty man. My years is matched exact to the century and for the most part it have been a good life, wholesome. I think though, with what have passed, I shall not like to be here when the clock strike two thousand.

Very quickly we get the man, his Welshness, and importantly that he refers to himself as “bastard”.

That has to matter.

We get a little bit more of “Wales” and then: I am not one for writing, and never was much of a one for talking either. I would not tell you of this, I would just let it go, but Lord forgive me, I am writing it down. I have a good copperplate strapped into me at town school which has never left me; I have my retirement pen, my Quink, a pad to write this and enough hot in me to bore a new pit-shaft. I must record the visit of the man Allen Jones. If I am not to get this out of me, I will surely be bursted, so better or worse, it shall go down.

Allen Jones, with long red hair like a woman, a liking for his own voice and him on a fired-up mission to discover his past.

And there it is, the whole set up. But then there’s this bastard thing, which must matter. Why do we know it matters? Because the author “old us.” He told us by making his title and by having the bastard nature emphasised in the first sentence.

Openings and endings, of stories, lectures, books, are important. Also the beginning and end of a paragraph are important. It’s there in a lecture that we make our big-hit points. See how in paragraph one we get “bastard” at the start and “visit” at the end. In para two we get his health at the beginning, then his age and date at the end. Then see how the specific importance (the reason for him telling the story) is at the end of a paragraph, and see how in the last paragraph his visitor is described, then the mission.

Most importantly we have all the ingredients of the story “up front”.

Mother, Questions is about a woman questioning her mother.

Wow!

The first paragraphs do a lot.

Mother, can I ask, with you and Dad, my father, how did it happen, how was it? Were you frightened, excited, was he strong, was he clumsy?

You told me once, before you died, you said, "We walked out for almost a year and then, one day, on a bridge over the canal at Alt-y-ryn, he asked if he could kiss me." You said you laughed, couldn't help it. He ran home.

So Mum, how did you get from there to being my mother? How did that shy young man learn to make love? Was he your first, Mum? Nellie said to me once, (she was drunk on gins), she said you had a beau everyone wanted, but he was "a bit of a lad, a heart-breaker", wouldn't take no for an answer.

So we know immediately that the woman wants to speak about the father and sex (paragraph one) but then paragraph two shows us these questions are being asked of a dead mother. Is the daughter well?

Note too (end of a paragraph) that the father is shown refusing to take no for an answer. Why might that be?

Like with other stories, this one could still go in different directions, but the next paragraph is:

I always wondered, wondered how I happened. I'm here, some kind of me, and I'm you, the bridge across the water, my hopeless father. Am I my sisters too, am I my brother? If they hadn't come before me, you would have been different, things would have been different, nothing, nothing, nothing would have happened exactly as it did. I wouldn't be this me, I wouldn't be able to ask these questions. How can it be that I exist without it being necessary that I exist? But how could these loves, bridges, kisses, how could they have all made my history, made me this, put me here?

So, in this fiction we have a daughter, clearly tortured, reflecting on even being alive. And we know from earlier that she’s talking to her dead mother. Would it surprise yout to discover she was in a mental hospital? And is the tone not sad? Do you not have a fair guess at where this story is headed?

I’d like you to guess about the core fact in the story The Last Love Letter of Berwyn Price. Go on, try. Did you think it might involve a love letter? Do you think Berwyn is alive or dead?

So I have given away two-thirds of the story. Have I killed it? Well “Berwyn” placed second of 5,000 entries and has earned £1,150 to date, so maybe not?

The story itself opens unusually, with a Rugby Almanac entry which quickly tells us about Berwyn’s athletic life. We discover Berwyn was a famous rugby player and won a gold medal for sprinting. Then, right at the end of the entry is a small sentence: Son of Philip Price, Swansea & Aberavon, one Welsh cap.

This is fiction. Why on earth would we need that last sentence? Could it be that parents and children, the family line continuing, would be important?

Would you think that a rugby international, the son of a rugby international, might quite like a rugby international or two for sons?

And is Berwyn dead?

Mrs Bethan Price, if you're reading this, then it looks like I must have managed it, after all. I went and over-did it and popped my clogs, just like you and Doctor Llewellyn said I would. So bugger me, I'm dead, well what do you know? I'm sorry love, but if that's what happened, then it happened. I'll bet I died happy, though. Was it at the Arms Park? I bet all I could see when the moment finally came was red and white and green. I bet I could smell the lads and the mud, see the flags and hear Bread of Heaven!

I bloody well hope it was like that. I hope I didn't keel over on the way to the stadium. You and the girls…

So we know the man, his sporting history, that he was married, that he loved his wife, that he has died (and we think we know where) that he almost certainly wanted sons, but none are mentioned, and it’s about “men things”, sport, going there…

And does the tone suggest depressing or uplifting? Do you see how much has been given to you?

A story called The Quarry… Is it about a quarry where something is mined, or about a quarry being hunted? Could it be both?

It begins with a page of a young boy describing how to make a home-made crossbow. That description is straightforward but there are words underlined (emphasised to point them out to you.) What do they do or might they do?

This is how you make your crossbow. A piece of three-by-two pine [u]you got from a building site[/u], cut it up. Make a [u]crucifix[/u], two nails at the centre, otherwise the cross-piece moves. [u]You’ll have to buy[/u] the thick rubber, but no problem. [u]Get over the wall at the back of Feraro’s Chip Shop, steal a few pop-bottles, [/u]take them back in the morning for the deposits.

Nail the rubber along the cross-piece. Don’t put the nail through the rubber. It’ll split. Use a couple of nails each end, bang them in either side of the rubber, then smash them over the rubber till it squishes down. You have to do two nails, otherwise it can come out. That happened to Colin Hicks. [u]It’s why he’s got a glass eye.[/u]

Never mind the plot, think character. What kind of kids? Are they law-abiding citizens? Note crucifix and nails. What religion is the narrator?

Approximately one page in, the instructions finish. We then get this:

Practice a bit over the Gollers, hitting cans and shooting at the rabbits. You’ll have to be a dead-eye dick. You won’t get two shots.

You use your sister, practice in the front room. You tell Maddie it’s the only way. You have to get good because otherwise, well just, otherwise...

So we know these kids are petty thieves, make seriously dangerous home-made-crossbows, that something is dangerous as they won’t get two shots. We also know it involves Maddie and they must practice until they are perfect. While you can’t precisely know what comes next, you have to presume this involves the narrator, his mate or mates, crossbows, Maddie, and great danger.

They have or quarry or this happens in a quarry.

In L for Laura; L for Love the protagonist is an “OK”, but not too bright bloke:

Ay for orses, remember that? A for orses, B for mutton? C fer yerself, D fer payment? Not sure I could remember it all. I'm not even sure if that's right, A-B-C-D.

A is really for Alice, B for Billy Smith she ran off with. C is for Clown, me for not noticing. D is for Diane my second, after we had to wait all those years until I was officially deserted.

It’s a fair bet this is about “Laura” and love. But is the protagonist a lucky guy? We know almost immediately that he’s been twice-cuckolded. What’s the betting that what’s to come is a new woman? The question is, will he finally get lucky or end up cheated again. See how little is withheld.

Ford Maddox Ford’s novel “The Good Soldier” opens, “This is the saddest story I have ever heard.” Let’s not settle down for a comedy, then!

Of course, being “up front” with the reader doesn’t always mean being direct and obvious.

But “what will come” can also be heralded subtly, with vague hints, with the tone and music of the piece as well as blatant “telling”.

In The Smell of Almond Polish the title is NOT a clue. We can only presume that almond polish and its smell will feature. And when the story opens:

Paddington, London, 1954

Bridie Collins steps down from the train, waits for the crowd to wrap her up. She looks above her; pigeons scattering under the great glass roof. Someone bumps her shoulder, rushes on. In the half-light she shivers, picks up her cardboard case and walks towards the ticket collector.

We get the date and an important character. But what about the tone? Happy? Sad? When you have decided, ask where the tone comes from, and how much does the tone steer the reading?

But why is Bridie here, and like this?

On the train, from Wales, Bridie had listened to the clattering songs in the track. "Did she do right? Well, did she do right? What could she have done? What should she have done? Was it right, was it right, was it right?"

After twenty-minutes, about an hour-and-a-half ago, the train had slowed down, clacking and slapping as it crossed points, then easing into the dark Severn tunnel. Bridie had felt her first real moment of guilt, then. How could she have left Pat, Jenny, Ronnie? And Barbara, Angela? Smoke had leaked in through an open window, but then the train emerged into light sunlight, bright, fresh English green, and she was excited. Now the rails whispered, "Of course it was right. Of course it was right. What else could you do, could you do, could you do? It was right. It was right. It was right."

We now have Bridie’s recent history. She has left home. Do we think she is a good person or a bad person? I think the tone and the music, and one line declares how she should be viewed.

But in the case of this story we do not appear to have the full story and outcome given to us (clearly OR subtly) but if this was a lecture on Bridie’s story, what is here would say “Bridie left her husband and children to run away to London, because she feels she had no choice. But still she feels guilty. My lecture will show how Bridie fights to establish herself but remember that the pull of motherhood is very strong.”

OK, in this case we have to wait and see, but nevertheless, note just how many alternative possibilities have been eliminated. The reader can be in little doubt as to the kind of read that is coming.

Should we empathise and sympathise with Bridie? Is she big and strong, money in her pocket, or tiny, timid, a leave in the wind?

The ticket-collector is a darkie. He smiles, has gold on one tooth. Bridie smiles back. Steam hisses somewhere, everything smells of sulphur. People push round her. She picks up her little case and walks out of the station into a damp morning. She has nowhere in the world to go.

Let’s hear it for Bridie!!

As I have said, many good stories, prize-winning stories can open with a clear direction and “almost instantly” declare themselves. I’ve also said they can be more subtle. This is a recent flash.

THREE BROTHERS, ONE BOAT

We are brothers, three old codgers on a shingle beach beneath a staggering moon. We are old, old, with our trousers rolled, and we are each of us and all of us, a little crazy.

We are escapees, illicit, sucking in a feeling as deliciously wicked as a hand up a sitting skirt beneath a coat, as glorious as stolen icing sugar and marzipan in a Christmas kitchen, as lucky as death pushed back again.

By now the word must be out. Discrete alarms ring or buzz, three Welshman and the night is cold – related yes, and all as mad as a cat – yes, yes, dead or alive will be fine.

There is nothing direct here, but what will happen to these brothers? Ask, what do we have. The title, gives us “boat” (and could also signify “in the same boat”. We hear they are crazy, they are “escapees”. The word death and dead occurs in the first 108 words.

Or Google “Toffee Penis” and follow links until something on the web prompts you to write a story

When I have those fears that I will cease to beExtra StrongGary's at the match, I'll need to be Whoever guesses, thinks or dreams he knowsNAILMethodical, wiping spit, a little sun creamPINMy life has waited in cornersHey bud, I could commentateThere’s a certain slant of lightPotatoesSometimes you only hear about it second-hand, or fifthApril 19th, DrivingThere are things we need and hate and need to hateFires & Human BehaviourThe burn after shavingCatching Life by the throatComing this way on a different lineWhy we have a navelMr Dickory and Jennifer DockBunsenHere, take my pictureCatch a falling starTeach me to hear the mermaids singingA catastrophe of charlatansI love Sally SmithOne morning, I saw these threeYou say TomatoMcDonalds, burning flesh upon the airThe difference between a grandson and a cactus

Saturday, November 15, 2008

We are trying to link all those misbegotten souls who were with us in the early days (eg Mimi Carmen, Geri Borcz, Suzanne Proulx, Benjamin Graber) and all those who were with us when we were in MOVING PEN, then those who survived the SCRAWL WARS, those who were with us when we had the Yahoo Gridders presence, those in Boot Camp (not on Yuku) and lastly those in TLC at Writers Dock

Join us, link to me as a friend in Facebook and I'll invite you into the group

The chapel's downstairs has three large bedrooms, a bathroom and loo, separate shower-room/toilet, and opposite, two more showers, a loo and a utility-room.

The double bedroom above is the smallest. It's hard to do justice. Even with a 17mm lens I can't get a full shot! The walls are about 2-3 feet thick (and then we had to insulate them to modern standards!) so there are gorgeous mahogany cill that have about the same square-footage as my first flat. (Plenty of scope for planting your books!

Above is the seating area of Bedroom 2, There's enough room for a full-size leather sofa (a sofa-bed) so people can "escape to their room". Only formally sleeping two, this room can sleep four (Mum and Dad can have the kids in there if they want to, or two singles can have a double each...)

The chapel in Wales moves ever closer to completion. This week sees the finish of the cosmetics, painting skirting boards etc and next week we have the stair banister fitted and then the stair-carpet. One thing holds up completion now, and that's exhaust fans in the bathrooms (don't ask me!)

Currently there are two straightforward double-bedrooms, and three bunkrooms sleeping a total of 13, but additionally there are five sofa beds. We did that because we never know what combination of singles or couples will turn up!

The table seats twelve.

The chapel's situation is great. The village is peaceful and sits close to the foot of Cader Idris but on the coast. There's a fully operational railway line that goes North to fairbourne, Barmouth, Harlech, Portmerion, Portmadoc, Criccieth and Pillwelli.

Travel South for Twyn, Aberdovey, Macynlleth where you change for Aberystwyth and Shrewsbury.

We've built this to live-in long term but while we can't it's a fantastic writers' retreat and I place where whole groups can stop. I've started shifting in hundreds (hundreds!) of Craft and How-to books, short-story collections, many, many lit-mags, biographies and autobiographies of writers, and of course, some good literature.

There is telephone and broadband there, at least four computers, a printer.

What I really hope, though, is to run writing courses there, the BC way. We had great success running course in Berkshire at Kingfisher Barn but that was always a squeeze. Here is perfect.

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Without a hero The sound of wind at night An awful stillness, heat She was good at faces You could shoot anything you wanted, for a price Strange weather There's a man in the house Barcelona This is the first thing I noticed So when did it all start? Gigantic, fantastic women We could go to Alaska? It's not that I don't like you There's a man I know, talks only of Jesus Sitting on the Dock of the Bay Two strangers on the bus, Grandma Alone Afterwards they were black from head to toe Voices in the dark Filler On his knees, scrubbing in tiny circles A wild justice My mother and father are dead, or in Orlando Boneshaker On the other hand, not I am like a sleepy fish

Friday, September 05, 2008

A small bird is taken by a hawkIt is a cold eveningRICEAn old man sits quietly nettingPorthcawlA child looks from a trainHe puts his hand to his face, unbelievingSAGOThe air smells of fishThe sea is heavy, swellingIt is too darkThe road that used to go there refuses nowThe headscarved womenHistory is bunkYou have to understand the fishOnly the poor can afford lots of childrenCREAMDoes night change to day?Stealing milk from the urn, scooping creamUncle JonjoFor some reason, there are too many wheelbarrowsCARDI want a dream kitchen, a kitchen to dream inI eat fish we caughtWe have too many booksNo Matter WhatJennifer Eccles' Fat SisterSALTCall me and I will describe it.

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

I turned on the radio and water came out Hatches, Matches & Dispatches Thirteen ways to look at it Because it dissolves The electrician is out of contact Riding the Yellow Trolley Car You were being silly He disappeared in the dead of winter I sit in a dive on 52nd St Knowing each other too well to talk Out of the blue I remember. My father playing football The brooks were frozen, airports closed An island five miles inland DECAY They are living off their reputation but it cannot last Catch 18, and it's going to get worse That's a lovely offer, but You were right my dear, even when you were mad Mayfly The best of times, the shittiest of times If I grow up, I'm going to be a boy The room was suddenly rich with soft light Whacky Posters Go tell it on the fucking mountain TIN Building new homes at Buschenwald TACK Time was away and somewhere else I have a desert but no camel The waiter does not come I asked my son when was he getting married. In the afternoon, he said. The day needs a plaster, a bandage I stand for old values. Give the black man a fair crack of the whip I dream of being loved by a chorus-girl My guru says I am old and I have too may layers of paint There was a camp here

Barely a twelve month after Tonto Three old shops, all in the name Jones Do not ask, "What is it?" FOLD Violence upon the roads Two dark tractors, pausing A pale light sawdust bars, the sounds of angry men BUZZ A lovely piece of slate There is a girl standing there Our life is changed: their coming our beginning Prophet It was a soft October night, summer at last His quick body You can cast out past the fish The sun used to shine, remember? Leave, then We heard a distant tapping on the road A sunrise like military best Smudge She slipped away to die quietly ITCH I love this, as some day a child will love it I have mislaid the key For I have known them all already Only an avenue, dark and nameless I see the image of a naked man We did not dare go near them The entrance is blocked by brambles Late in the summer the strange horses came

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

I told my son about my fatherThere's water still in the bathMajesticThe pub quiz: it's all about winningBridgeWhy not be a Brain-Surgeon?Kite Surfing 101There's a problem at the bridgeTrying to fix a lightBig BoySudoku for the damnedThe boys done wellA handy electrical gadgetA quarter ton of legoThe sound of cars passing in the wetWhy she doesn't phoneWhisky without the eIn the not too distant future, if all my dreams come trueThis is a stupid way to dieWith sawdust, string and patchesFrom the hill I saw a line of snaking tenementsBush MeatUnder an awning, talking about nothing; rainPeoniesIs surviving suicide a success or failure?Two rooms done and the doors closedA three-legged hippoIt may be pretty, but is it appropriate?HolesArctic elephants are the same as African ones. But colder.Treasure Island

Monday, August 25, 2008

Pictures of old LondonUndercoatDiscovered by a monkFuturamaIt torments me, this injusticeCrayonShe is big and plump and happyIf you can keep your headRefreshed every two minutesShifting the furnitureGlasses, but naffTea, biscuits, a restThe sound of bickeringI need to be very drunk16:16Oh for a muse of fireWhat bells are these that toll?Fokkers!Do NOT close the cupboardAnyone can use themI wondered lonely, under a cloudCity of AngelsThe thing I like is overcomingAnother Monday!Muscle for the wingJust at that moment, Carol came in the back doorHe lifted a bowl of nuts and offered themDeep Blue GoodbyeThe Edge of ReasonI’ve come for a payment on the bedWhy the vacuum cleaner makes me angryOut of the SunWhat I’m saying is I’m a drunk, not an alcoholicElectric PolisherAn amazing endingMother, mother, where did you go?I try not to see my sister too oftenHe was a sort of commandoA thousand blessings, EffendiI claim deathThe difference between clams and musselsThe café is shut.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

When all this is over, I shall give them the fingerThe weakening eye of dayI saw an x-ray of a babyAXEUnwearied still, lover after loverNot even in my thoughtsI did not think death could undo so muchDANDELIONShe is beautiful. I dream about her.The rain flies down the street, flaps outside our doorBLOOD TESTAll the sun long it was runningAppointment in BasingstokeThe stove’s heat mottling her legsMoving the booksHer dead body wears the smile of accomplishmentI know where you areThinking of an old lover makes it hardJUGWe renounce everything except the selfUzi WeddingHer floured hands at the baking boardShow me the kitchen, the knivesThree thousand years ago they didn’t give a fuckGUNI would like to be terminally illRed and yellow, silver-back, half-imagined things16 GIGI kept my wife’s heart in a canary’s cageDUFFY’S TRICKI’m going to sail round the worldI cannot speak to youHorses passed from dawn into the night, horses, horses, horses.PAIRSWe come to terms with shade, the principle of greyOne or two blackmailers, a poisonerUnnatural ActsEvery fear is a form of desireUse the back entrance

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

A sound of banging from upstairsKeeping them apartAlthough a true love never dies, it can become unrealAn empty can of PepsiSailing in the dark towards OsloPerfect apart from the missing doorA slip on the stairsI have come often to these open hallsDrained, emptyWhere the streets have no nameMark is at the doorThe dark is risingIt’s a perfect size for DVDsThere’s published and publishedThe end one is splitIn the not-too-distant future, if all my dreams come trueMajesty, MajestyThe legend of Luke McCauleyA swollen floorNorthern LightsI’m gonna tear your playhouse downWho Wants to Live Forever?Air on a G-StringAn angel of the great white way

Monday, August 18, 2008

December. Another Monday.If we mattered they’d have to feel guiltyBright-faced, her eyes darting.A brush with drowningHe could see her in his rear-view mirror, long and slimHer thoughts were filling the silenceThere was darkness and a silence she could feelIt was “Teach Yourself Flying”She was shoeless and massaging one of her black-stockinged feetThey went down to the canteen via the back stairsYou measured harassment by the square yardThey heard a quick rush of men’s laughterMy Billy is an angelThe rounded-down sterility that came from a ball-point penThey were brewing up behind the barShe was a tallish size twelve with shining black hairA thin air jobShe wished that she was running, right nowRemember, God sent me.They can do it to us because we’re nothing.This is the one. She likes me.She lived alone on a quiet estate of Barratt housesPerhaps she had smelt something burningThank-you for your co-operationWe’re looking for a man in a dirty raincoatThey were bound to talk about menHer hands at ten-to-two on the wheelThey parked in a side-streetA massive oak treeSunlight flashed off boneHe’s magnificent!” she said.Four or five hundred yards away to their leftThe temperature had finally crept above zeroA dark green sheen on the grassShe twitched her nose, sniffing at the air.I feel shitty if you must knowFrom the bushes he saw the two of themHe was in a Nike shell-suit and a pair of New Balance trainersThen the women turned and walked awayHe felt something cold snap around his wristsWe don’t fancy the paperworkThe parking’s crap in central RichmondMan-hating would do for now.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

A misunderstanding wings inBakeliteThe spaces between peopleGirls in the river, the water up to their waist.Banana SaladIn the dark houseboats families were stirringAll our lives we must forgetRed BusThe bride, holding her flowers too tightlyDrip-DryI predict my predictions are always wrongGrief by instalmentsOn the muddy bank, boys are fishingAnd still they dieI sit drinking, thinking. The coffee is bitterNapkinPrince Thingumebob, from what’stheplaceWooden CrossesWhat I am is not importantFear swells the heartBrute force will doHe trod cautiously over the deadChampionsDogs slavering behind barbed wireHammerSyllable has too many syllablesA girl in exilePiratesFool’s Gold still looks niceYour daughter is accomplished, MadamSKIPWhat EXACTLY is in that sandwich?Mistakes in NightclothesThings bin-men collectA little bit to proveThe morning hits me like a fuck-off phone-callWhat was left was fineSome bastard stole my life and left my wife

Saturday, August 16, 2008

My father, crying in St Mary’sI am worn out with dreamsMy love, I never spoke to her, but she heard every wordSmoke in the ValleyI am a man nowAl night in submarine lightMy hands are red with the blood of the deadI think about the FBIWe drove fast, singing, playing the StonesI know that I shall meet my fateHe was a schoolmasterAgnes fiddling with her rosaryTread softlyA boy like a ballet dancer, poisedOh love and you so far awayI draw your attention to the windowA sadness of penguinsHair pale as a breathIf I should love a fat ladySomewhere, on the other side of this wasted nightI took my son’s girlfriend homeHow delightful it may beLosing is fairly easyI lost my father in WaitroseBoogie-Bloody-WoogieMy friends rise up and chantYellow pissholes in the snowI can name them allTelevision and other necessitiesPassing bellsMy daughter is drawing a pictureWe can get so far in this worldI once bathed in a bath full of eelsTime is a bastardShall I compare thee to a Lamborgini?Isobel from the estate kissed meWhen all this is over, I’ll retireIt’s a shame about the shadowAt night I do not know who I amI walk through your rooms, wonderingUndergroundI am acquainted with the dark

In the depths of the Greyhound terminalThe soldier takes pride in saluting his captainA white mareMy days wind out, aimless, hopelessPursuitOld men and women, rich and poorPencilGold, Gold, Gold, Gold, GoldA cricket bat, a boxNothing to do with HamletTwo men in blazersCrewThe boys are not wellIt’s about the end of the worldClear plasticAn aged man is a paltry thingThis is freshI shall hide behind being oldThe fun starts hereWe pace along the battlements, hopingTwo men have been foundEdgar wins!A winding staircase, candles flickeringA Mexican green pepperWithout love, the world is too heavyRage-driven, rage-tormentedSwanWhen we were young we had pretty toysTennis-ballThey are holding a public meetingSilverI started running weeks ago. I will not stopAtlasI’m trying to come to the pointOn the cover of TIMEThrough icy streetsThere are places where I have not beenThey reject spiritThis man can sing!I imagine a land, rain-soaked

Friday, August 15, 2008

DogfightThere’s a problem with Mrs EvansWhite on WhiteWhen you are old, if you should think of meYes, but apart from the race massacres?AirfieldsAnd they killed the catThe edges of doorsFull English BreakfastKatie is back soonRocked the cradle etcTwo single duvetsHow do I love Theo? Let me count the waysTwenty-eight hoursA lot of rough edgesNo, THIS is a knifeBoil, carbuncleIt is cooler than we expectedI know she died, but how?I keep my son awakeGo gently, go otherwise, but go.We are arguing. Twenty? Thirty?I don’t like how the wind comes throughMy gnome has run off againI heard he was Welsh, but OKBlessings, EffendiI may go, I may come back. But I will only come back if I went.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Forgive me for naming you Your dark geometry Not British A clean, white apron The wars come and the wars come Two Jokers I have not sent you a letter and I doubt it will arrive Howl, Howl. When all is said and done, at the end of the day A tall bird in a small tree Ping! On a motorway bridge You never asked what he was like. There are men seeking my father If October comes GAS! A dull light shines behind a muslin curtain I think we should finish now Consider death This is not a test I wish to take In a bluebell wood, bluebells We could meet at the station Virgin Mary I'm beginning to dislike mornings Peanut A small bird, impaled on a thorn We know love, little by little A shadow whispering Chapel He was part of the place

This is the wind, the wind down a long valleySunlight is a thing that needs a window to be called light.Have you heard something?LeatherBattered by time and weatherDoors open and close with tinkling bellsI saw a thousand years passTwo old men exchanging proseTable, GlassThe gate is held together by wireGoldIt will be always at a distanceI will do murder and then drink teaThink of the spacesDaughter, do not go where it is darkI cannot sit in that chairCigarette BurnsI do not trust this lightMaybe we could get together on day, and talk aboutSilverThere is a dance at Billy’s tonightReportThese are indifferent streetsCreditI think of my father emptying the grateVitaminsWe danced on broken glass and sangDragged through streets at dawnHe is chained in an old subway tunnelI need a sordid movieDreams cluster there and turn coldThere are light months and dark monthsYou are far away, dark in your small fieldsLeave it to nature and it will sprawl

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

A bereavement, three on holiday, one doesn't have time to do critiques, one off on business and suddenly the group shrinks. Damn! (This is why you always need twice as many as you think you need)

PROMPTS

You plan for it, have all the equipmentTelephonePhotographs do not burn like paperMixerThe smell of breakfasts over the dunesStorkI was too young, and old enoughROBINOn the hottest, stillest day of summerVoiceThe Collected Perms of Mariella WilkinsHi-FiWhen I was not a young childBall-BearingThis is too long, too dry, I think we need to worryCouples, CardigansIs that not how good stories go?The evening is swellingIf love goes, was it ever there?Victoria and AlbertAll things can tempt me from my craftMarmaladeThomas was a fat drunken fuckYou could have gone backGolfSummer is late and autumn squeezed outShall I part my hair, or eat a peach?I am looking for a riverWe both lost, fallingUnder my window, water runsHAWKThe first word after a long silenceHere is a recipeHe calls to those who called him fatherThree Hail MarysI know seven ways thereAnd loitering withinGetting up early on a Sunday morningVarious MuseumsFour dripping candles and a room full of sadness

Monday, August 11, 2008

The courtyard is filthyBlue LightThe tree frog croaks its far-off songI love you Lady SingletonAnon wrote itThere’s a fish that talks in the kitchenMosquitoI dare not remove my cap and let my birds escapeSIT!I am having a breakdown in Marks & SpencersI have a jolly, jolly gunAm I the only person who finds snow desolate?They are closing all the stationsSergeant Brown’s ParrotThough the night was made for lovingDixon of Dock GreenThe yellow half-moon large and lowEverything changesStop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone.I see a man digging, moving holesElephantBooks on shelves, threatening to moveI wanna be your lover, babyBirdsongLast night I dreamt in JapaneseI lied to please the mobSoftly, in the dusk, a woman is singingHit Man is two words?Aunt Jennifer made love to a tiger, and all was well at first

Sunday, August 10, 2008

I want to have another living summerCluster OneIn February, digging his garden, planting potatoesWhat do you want from me?A ghostly batsman plays forward on a ghostly ballIt’s not romance, simply how things arePoles apartYellow-Brown woman smelling of onionsClearing a path through snowMaroonedThe same news in different housesA great day for freedomYour clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thingWearing the inside outCome live with me and be my loveA thing of beauty is a joy until it’s obsoleteTake it backSometimes things don’t get better, everComing back to lifeThe sun can melt a field of sorrowKeep talkingI was born twice and died three timesLost for wordsThe room, all of us, suddenly richHigh HopesIt is too calm, something is wrongSigns of LifeIn Spanish he whispered, there is no time leftI am very, VERY fond of bananasWith smells of steak in passagewaysLearning to FlyWould you like to borrow my space-suit?The dogs of warOnce in a finesse of fiddles, I found ecstacyOne slipBournvita, Bournvita, BournvitaOn the turning awayHe breathed in air and breathed out light.

Two More Signed Up over the weekend, but then two away on holiday!! Crits past 100.

TODAY WE WRITE A STORY, NOT A FLASH, OVER 1500 WORDS AT LEAST.

A Maltese Falcon Be copy now to men of grosser blood and teach them how to war The Lady Eve And it was at that age that I awoke Never give a sucker an even break Every old man I see reminds me of my father Wolf Man The harbour lights glaze over restless docks How Green Was My Valley My credit cards are incandescent Sullivan's Travels Know then thyself Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack The Outlaw From time to time our love is like a snail MOVIE She is a sound in the air, whispered, soaring No, I ain't got nothing but my horse Citizen Kane I have so much nothing. I have cornered the market Woman of the Year The trick is sleep till 12 then watch TV Hanging breathless over the teletype The sea is calm tonight To Be or Not to Be Don't be rude to alligators until you've crossed the river Bambi I place my hope on the water Casablanca The best are those who die quite young and stay pristine Mrs Miniver The peaceful waters of your mouth The Magnificent Ambersons Kids walking in the dark road The Black Swan I wish I could believe in something beyond You, hope, my football team Cat People This is the dawn I was waiting for An Old Serbian Legend The crossed-out bits of Keats, the edits Shadow of a Doubt Cut me to pieces, birds will still sing and worms crawl Obsession For Whom the Bell Tolls The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen The Ox-Bow Incident I Walked With a Zombie Heaven Can Wait The Raven Double Indemnity Bathing Beauty The Woman in the Window Arsenic and Old Lace Ladies of the Park Great Freedom Number Seven Gaslight To Have and Have Not Cover Girl Henry V

Blind eyes like unshelled hard boiled eggsThere was a riverParchmentAn old man sits next to his beerCHAIRI have had lovers, all sub-primeTABLEThinking of fish we have caught, almost caughtA Red WheelbarrowWe took turns, and she said yes, then why did it feel wrong?PullmanOnce, after a long day of unremitting rain, the sunBECKSWhat if the road you often took, was moved at night?Scooping CreamWhat if there was never surprise?The nearest shop is miles awayThe life of a leafSuddenly there are cattle, rumbling towards McDonaldsMicroLoveShopping Carts and Rain, and amber lightNow something is in the airI have heard, the children are returningDIE, Bond!If you could unwind history, where to stop…CRANEOf course the world is not enoughLate SeptemberOnce I asked my grocer for a perfect potatoNobody there, just fruit on brambleStainless SteelYou said it wasn’t worth the troubleDay Rises, and quietI caught a tremendous fishI have loved three women, married others

Friday, August 08, 2008

Blind eyes like unshelled hard boiled eggsThere was a riverParchmentAn old man sits next to his beerCHAIRI have had lovers, all sub-primeTABLEThinking of fish we have caught, almost caughtA Red WheelbarrowWe took turns, and she said yes, then why did it feel wrong?PullmanOnce, after a long day of unremitting rain, the sunBECKSWhat if the road you often took, was moved at night?Scooping CreamWhat if there was never surprise?The nearest shop is miles awayThe life of a leafSuddenly there are cattle, rumbling towards McDonaldsMicroLoveShopping Carts and Rain, and amber lightNow something is in the airI have heard, the children are returningDIE, Bond!If you could unwind history, where to stop…CRANEOf course the world is not enoughLate SeptemberOnce I asked my grocer for a perfect potatoNobody there, just fruit on brambleStainless SteelYou said it wasn’t worth the troubleDay Rises, and quietI caught a tremendous fishI have loved three women, married others

Thursday, August 07, 2008

These are singled, the alpha-listed, then in reverse.try reading it all, singing them, chanting

Wait for a voice to call you

PROMPTS

They have promised to send a train, and we will leaveFather Maloney’s stareImagine a tender gravity, fallingDecisionAnd if I am writing, I am not holding my wifeI would like to sit close to the doorsHow Morning is, and quietTockI have told you all this to give you painBamboo SquaresThey bubble-wrap hearts now and sell them three for twoThe cook’s boy, the cleaning girlVENOMStone to stone, heart to stoneCHIMEThe rustle of historyNAIL, HammerTime clears its throatBALLDays of great love; of destinyDo mad people love? What are there letters like?GRATEBirds Eye Frozen False Tears are on OfferJack of HeartsWe will talk about great things, and footballTAXII am silly, filled up with sleep and wantOne Potato, Two PotatoHardly a JokerShould you not have time to memorise these instructionsFlat-Pack MarriagesThe Chemistry of DistasteAnd then cracking twigsAnd we all stared at the box, and it inside

And if I am writing, I am not holding my wifeAnd then cracking twigsAnd we all stared at the box, and it insideBALLBamboo SquaresBirds Eye Frozen False Tears are on OfferCHIMEDays of great love; of destinyDecisionDo mad people love? What are there letters like?Father Maloney’s stareFlat-Pack MarriagesGRATEHardly a JokerHow Morning is, and quietI am silly, filled up with sleep and wantI have told you all this to give you painI would like to sit close to the doorsImagine a tender gravity, fallingJack of HeartsNAIL, HammerOne Potato, Two PotatoShould you not have time to memorise these instructionsStone to stone, heart to stoneTAXIThe Chemistry of DistasteThe cook’s boy, the cleaning girlThe rustle of history They bubble-wrap hearts now and sell them three for twoThey have promised to send a train, and we will leaveTime clears its throatTockVENOMWe will talk about great things, and football

We will talk about great things, and football, VENOM, Tick-Tock, Time clears its throat, They have promised to send a train, and we will leave, They bubble-wrap hearts now and sell them three for two, The rustle of history, The cook’s boy, the cleaning girl, The Chemistry of Distaste, TAXI, Stone to stone, heart to stone, Should you not have time to memorise these instructions, One Potato, Two Potato, NAIL, Hammer, Jack of Hearts, Imagine a tender gravity, falling, I would like to sit close to the doors, I have told you all this to give you pain, I am silly, filled up with sleep and want, How Morning is, and quiet, Hardly a Joker, GRATE, Flat-Pack Marriages, Father Maloney’s stare, Do mad people love? What are there letters like? Decision, Days of great love; of destiny, CHIME, Birds Eye Frozen False Tears are on Offer, Bamboo Squares, BALL, And we all stared at the box, and it inside, And then cracking twigs, And if I am writing, I am not holding my wife

About Me

I'm a full-time writer and teacher of creative writing.
I gave up the day job in 1992 and struck a three-book deal a year later.
Published 5 crime novels 1994-1997 then switched to writing serious short fiction.
I run an internet writing school known as Boot Camp, which is direct and honest and expects hard work.
While in Boot Camp, Boot Campers have won 131 First Prizes, many more after they have left.
Boot Campers and ex-Boot Campers have published or are about to publish 20 Novels and 7 short-story collections.
Six Boot Campers have become editors of journals. Two have earned MA with Distinction in Creative Writing
I tell the truth about writers and writing, which regularly gets me banned from writing sites.
My pet hates are those sites where beginning writers lie to each other about how wonderful their work is. Three years later the writing is basically the same and the praise is even higher. What's missing is genuine growth and worthwhile publications.
Favourite short stories are "A Silver Dish" by Saul Bellow, "The Ledge" by Lawrence Sargeant Hall, "The 27th Man" by Nathan Englander